


Hot Medal

by amaradangeli



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M, Kink, Military Kink, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 10:17:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16721448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaradangeli/pseuds/amaradangeli
Summary: Jack’s been looking at women in dress blues for a long time.





	Hot Medal

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [fems](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fems/pseuds/fems) in the [FandomRevival](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/FandomRevival) collection. 



> This went decidedly more “medals” kink than “dress blues” kink, but what the hell, right?
> 
> Also, this is the first smut I’ve written in a year. It was like pulling teeth, but I think it turned out okay. The last 1265 words (the smut) were written tonight and haven’t been properly proofed by another human. Alas, I needed to post this. For lots of reasons.

Jack’s been looking at women in dress blues for a long time. He actually remembers the first time he glimpsed a female officer in the staid skirt, pale blouse and stiff jacket, hardware gleaming and proudly displayed over the curve of her breast. He’s known many female officers during his tenure and most of them were damned impressive and yes, some of them even, quite beautiful. It’s the only way he can explain how a mild appreciation turned, in time, to a downright kink. Something about a hot woman in that particular uniform never fails to make his body tight and hard.

Couple that with the feelings that have been building for his second in command and his control is, at this boring and formal juncture, tenuous at best. He’s actually wondering how the edges of her shining medals would feel against his tongue.

Sitting next to her at the interminable meeting is testing his limits. They're close enough – they usually are – that the backs of his fingers brush against the stiff fabric of the edge of her jacket every time he swivels his chair (which is often). She’s engrossed in the presentation and seemingly oblivious to his flirtation with her hem. As his boredom with the conversation at hand grows, his attention to her uniform becomes less circumstantial and more deliberate. He only has to tug at the fabric twice for her own attentions to shift.

For a while she tries to split her focus – she probably knows it’s going to fall to her to fill him in on what he missed so he can properly brief the General later. And it’s not that Jack shirks his duties as a rule, he’s a good second to the General, he’d have to be or he’d have long since been cut from the program, but he doesn’t usually have the distraction of Carter in her blues resting atop no downtime between an off-world mission and a red-eye flight to Washington, a mix-up at their government procured hotel, and the subsequent mad dash to the local Holiday Inn Express. He’s looking forward to sitting with her in the hotel bar, watching her nurse an Amaretto and pineapple juice while she talks with her hands and probably makes some notes for him on a cocktail napkin with the felt-tip pen he keeps in his pocket. She’ll sit close enough that the perfume she only wears with her dress uniform will cut through the cigarette smoke.

For now, he flirts covertly. He thinks she knows that’s what all his casual touches mean. The smiles, the jokes, the way he sometimes tries to fuck her with his eyes. There’s a line, they’ve never crossed it, and he’s far more overt with his interest than he should be but there’s a trust and safety between them that gives him the courage to do things he normally wouldn’t. If he thought for a moment he was pressuring, harassing her, or making her uncomfortable, the fun of the whole thing would be ruined.

But he hasn’t properly slept in about thirty-six hours and, while it’s not the longest he’s ever gone, it’s longer than he likes to go. The lack of sleep blurs the lines between fantasy and reality and he moves from tugging at the hem of her jacket to knuckling the outside of her thigh. When she shifts enough to press her thigh more fully into his hand a new round of fantasies – spurred by the idea that she’s into whatever he might be into – unfurl in his head.

Another hour passes before their meeting draws to a close and over those sixty minutes his hand maps the full territory of the anatomy he can reach without drawing attention to the fact that he’s touching her. Probably he’s the only one to notice the way her breathing has changed. And if she wobbles a little when she stands to shake hands with the other, and higher-ranking, officers at the table, it’s likely anyone who notices has chalked it up to their overnight travel and the hours they’ve been sitting at the table.

The cab ride back to the less-impressive-than-average-DC-hotel is remarkably bland considering he has friction burns on the tips of his fingers from the fabric of her uniform. The conversation is innocuous – in part because the meeting was highly classified and the cabbie is unlikely to have clearance and in part because it’s clear that Carter’s shifted to auto-pilot. He likes to think it’s because she needs to focus on pulling herself back together, but he’d seen the way she’d deftly handled the brass as they were ending the meeting. She’s probably compartmentalizing, doing her best to restore equilibrium before his well-known maverick streaks gets them in a heap of trouble.

When the cab pulls up in front of the hotel, they don’t discuss it, but when he angles himself in the direction of the bar, she doesn’t hesitate. The room looks like every DC lounge he’s ever been in: rich, warm tones, glossy woods, low-pile carpet, important looking people.

They choose the bar instead of a table and she unbuttons her jacket with her right hand while signaling the bartender with her left. And when she climbs onto the high stool she steadies herself with one hand on Jack’s bicep instead of the smooth-hewn and varnished cherrywood of the bar. He thinks it highly possible that his wandering hand might have gotten to her in a way she couldn’t quite assimilate during the short ride. The way her medals are glinting and reflecting in the mirror behind the bar-shelves and the way her skirt rides up as she settles on the stool is definitely getting to him.

While she orders their drinks – she knows what he likes and he thinks they both get a little thrill out of the sheer fact that she knows and can illustrate that to even a stranger such as the bartender – he looks at their reflection in the mirror. He knows they’re both good looking. He knows the way people, even in this godforsaken town, regard the uniform. So he knows they make a striking couple. The fact that they draw eyes is probably a good thing. It means he’ll keep his hands off her. He thinks it’s probably not a good thing that simply being in public isn’t deterrent enough.

She’s done explaining the meat and potatoes of their meeting, including having answered all his questions quite patiently, when he casually traces the edge of one particularly impressive medal with the pad of his right index finger. Her eyes are fixed on the eagle on his shoulder and he wonders if she’s seeing the same impressive things he’s seeing or if she’s reminding herself what the boundaries are.

What would she say if he told her how much he wants to feel the weight of her accomplishments on his tongue – tangy metal, bitter polish, and smooth edges? He’s fantasizing about tugging the metal away from her uniform with the same delicate intensity he’d later use on her nipples when the red flash of her maraschino cherry disappears into her mouth. He watches, agape, as her jaw works minutely and then, a moment later and with a sly smile, she produces a cherry stem tied in not just one but _two_ tiny, tight knots. She lays it between them on the bar, a blood red splash under her scrawled writing on a cocktail napkin. All he sees is a gauntlet thrown.

Something indiscernible flickers across her face. He thinks he sees the moment she throws caution to the wind. She tosses back the last drops of liquor in her glass along with the lone ice cube. He expects to hear her bite down, but he can see, between her slightly parted teeth, the ways she’s rolling it over her tongue. He’s cataloged a lot of Carter-watching hours but that is easily the most erotic thing he’s ever witnessed. She picks up the small, oddly-impractical navy blue purse she carries when in her dress blues and cants her head in the direction of the elevators. It's probably nerves that force her eyes to slide away without moving over his face or waiting to see if he follows.

In the elevator she’s quiet and still. He doesn’t take it as uncertainty or nerves but rather, as resolve. Clearly, she is done waiting for some nebulous point in the future when this might be okay. He’s spent a good deal of time himself having long, internal conversations about not knowing what the future holds. There is duty and honor, yes. But there is also torturing yourself beyond reason. And there’s not a doubt in his mind she’s tried to _not_ want him as much as he’s tried to _not_ want her.

She walks with a sedated sort of purpose directly to his door. If she’d have been any other woman, his room wouldn’t have been his first choice. Being that she’s who she is, he likes the idea that – even if she leaves – he'll be able to smell her when it’s over.

The business-appointed hotel doesn’t give them much in the way of ice-breakers. There are no tiny bottles of alcohol they don’t really need to occupy their hands. The television holds no appeal. His eyes slide to the bed but he can tell hers never leave his face.

There’s something less serious and daunting about doing this while _not_ sprawled across the bed. Sprawled across the bed might lead to sex and that’s a whole lot less repressible. So, he crowds her, hoping to push her back until she’s perched on the edge of the dresser. She stands her ground, of course she does, so he kisses her, but just the corner of her mouth, tastes the sweetness of the pineapple juice and amaretto with a quick flick of his tongue. He’s close enough that he can feel her shift her weight onto one foot.

His fingertips on her belly cause her to flinch, but he can tell it’s anticipation and arousal, not fear. The slight pressure he exerts does make her step back and he forces two small steps from her until she bumps up against the dresser. She’s on the short side, parallel to the door and he can almost see the way she’ll splay one hand against the stripe-textured wallpaper and sink the other into his hair.

He’s going to have to kneel in front of her, but he’s pretty sure that the taste of her on his tongue is going to soothe the savage beast that is his bad knees. He wants to feel her slick tightness wrapped around his cock but even that desire isn’t as strong as the one to get the taste of her all the way up inside his head and to find out what her clit feels like pressed against the flat of his tongue. When he kneels, the flash of pain makes his cock jump and he knows that no matter how good this is going to be for her – and he’ll make sure it is – it'll be better for him.

The callus on his trigger finger snags on the fine nylon on the outside of her thigh as he pushes his hand up underneath her skirt. She rucks the polyester skirt up for him. His tongue grows thick in his mouth when he sees that between him and her is just the sheer, nude material of her pantyhose. He can see the fine, blonde hair at the apex of her thighs and the gentle folds of flesh hiding her clit from his eyes.

He sinks into her, nose first, and presses his face against the warmth of her mons. She smells musky, like sex already, like she’s been thinking about this since that moment he tugged on her uniform jacket. He wants to lick the slit between her legs and find out if she’s slick already, but his mouth gets ahead of his brain and he pushes strong his tongue against the soft, cottony crotch of her hose and he can’t quite taste her but he can feel her heat and she can, it’s clear by the soft and sexy grunt she makes, feel him pressing against her. The approach lacks finesse, but neither of them seem to be very upset about it.

He peels the gossamer fabric down from her hips. He tries to focus on removing the restrictive garment completely, but his nose and mouth have other ideas and his brain wages war with itself. He splits his attention between the soft, warm, fragrant part of her where his face is buried and the way his hands stroke down the silky skin of her legs, fingers first, pushing the nylons off as he goes.

He nips at the fleshy place right above her clit and she pushes her hips toward him as she kicks off her shoes and hose. He feels the press of her long, strong toes against his hip as she tries to increase their contact without changing his position. The skin of her ass is powdery soft as he slides his hands around to grab her cheeks and pull her closer, to press her closer into his mouth.

His tongue seeks her warmth. The taste of her explodes in his mouth. The slippery, slick wetness that has collected on her skin is telling in its volume. His fingertips dig into the muscled flesh of her ass as he wars with his desire to part her folds with his fingertips and probe for the answers to more of her secrets.

The slight part of her thighs is giving him room to tantalize them both, but he won’t be able to give her real pleasure unless he’s got more room to work. He coaxes her legs further apart, encouraging her to bend her left leg, turn out, and helps her find a place to rest her foot on a metal bracket on the back of the dresser.

The light in the room is low, but he draws back from her, desperate to see her, to know the exact shade of pink she flushes inside when her blood is stirring. He’s seen his fair share of women spread open in front of him; they’re never the same and it’s always a rush. But the rush with Carter is something high and exhilarating and drives him past the edges of his restraint. He wants to be careful with her and he wants it all to feel like she wants it to, but he can’t help but indulge his own fantasies for a moment.

He can tell by the way her breath is shallow and noisy, by the way her hips are undulating, by the way she’s wet and swollen, her tiny clit pearly and exposed that he can devour her if he likes, but he needs to tread carefully. She’s going to be incredibly sensitive under his mouth, at least at first.

With an open mouth he sucks a much of her flesh as he can. Her wetness smears across his lips as his tongue strokes her hot folds. She tells him when and how to increase the pressure and he’ll never live enough days to forget the exact sound of Samantha Carter demanding in a breathy tone, “uhh, _sir_ , harder… there…,” or the sheer relief in her voice when he gets it right and she sighs, “ _yes_.”

He’s busy but he hears her hands hit the side of the television and the sounds of plastic sliding against the top of the dresser. She doesn’t miss a beat – and neither does he – when she stops leaning and instead perches more fully on the dresser’s edge. With a noticeable lack of self-consciousness he’ll forever associate with this moment though he’s seen it on her before, she spreads her legs wide, presses the fingers of one hand into the milky flesh of her thigh, and pulls him tighter into her with her other fingers buried in the short hair on the back of his head.

Hands dislodged from the soft skin of her backside, and with her position so inviting, he finds it impossible to resist the siren’s call of feeling her clench around his fingers. She’s not coy and neither is he, but he does test her entrance with the pads of two fingers before sliding the longest two fingers of his right hand inside her. The sound she makes is pure satisfaction, and it drip from inside her as surely as it dripped from her mouth.

She’s hot and tight and _strong,_ he discovers, when she tightens her muscles to slow his withdrawal. She’s rocking against his face, she’s filled, and when he looks up her body he finds her head thrown back and one strong hand clutching at her breast, trigger finger worrying her nipple.

God, he wants her naked and under him and all of this still happening. He wants her tight and throbbing, slicking his cock with the evidence of how good they are together. He wants her body pressed hard against him. Wants friction. Wants speed. Wants relief.

He spares one hand for the erection that’s heavy between his legs. When she’s done, he’s going to use the hand that is wet with her fluids to stroke himself to a speedy completion. Maybe she’ll watch. Or touch. Maybe she’ll be as close to throwing in the towel as he is and erasing the line between what happens tonight and what will happen tomorrow because before he had the taste of her in his mouth it seemed really important that he not be cock-deep inside her when either one of them came.

It doesn’t seem so important now.

Her thighs are shaking and she’s out of words just a litany of damp, breathy sounds. She’s intense and quiet and as much as he loves her voice, as much as he loves the way her mouth works when she says those ten-dollar words, he finds he lives for the way she’s quiet and fiery, strong and confident, but still so fucking needy when she’s wide open to him.

She comes fast and hard, no warning, just rhythmic clenches of her inner muscles around the fingers stroking that special place inside her, a sharp tilt of her hips drawing her sensitive, spasming clit just a fraction of an inch from the intensity of his mouth, and his honorific wrenched quietly from between bitten lips.

He sees her through it, makes sure both feet land on the floor, but he doesn’t waste a second before manhandling the fly of his trousers open. She’s still too far gone to touch him but she watches intently as he does, indeed, stroke his hot, hard flesh with his Carter-slicked hand. It takes moments, just a squeeze and four short strokes and he comes, spilling over his hands and onto the carpet between her bare feet.

She can’t take her eyes of his cock and he feels the pride he’s been conditioned to feel. It takes a while, longer than he expects, for his spent cock to not be rock hard. His sticky hands – sticky with the both of them, it gives him a jolt low in his belly – stroke slowly, softly, until he feels the same satisfaction she feels. And, maybe, so she’ll look at him a little longer.

His eyes, though, haven’t left her face. When her eyes finally do meet his there’s a question but no apprehension. He wants to ask her to stay, but he knows what that means – to both of them. He’d take that leap in a heartbeat, he suspects she would too, but he doesn’t want to be any more influence than he’s already been.

She reaches down, one hand – the hand that had been wrapped around the cotton encased, fleshy mound of her breast not but a moment ago – and helps him to his feet. With her skirt still around her waist she takes a tiny, deliberate step to him and kisses him – hot and open mouthed. She sucks his tongue into her mouth, fists her fingers in his hair and writhes against him.

He’s dumb when she releases him. Her eyes drop to the medals on her chest, flick back to his eyes, and then drop back to the medals. He follows her gaze. She fingers one shining disc, looks back and him coyly and then tugs it slightly, making the fabric of her jacket follow. Her lips tip up, and she quirks an eyebrow.


End file.
